


Trippin'

by Builder



Series: Chasing Ghosts [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Angst, Established Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Foster Care, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, War Veteran Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-07 01:27:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17951003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: James isn’t sure when the cross-country road trip became a good idea, or who thought it up in the first place.  Tasha’s twitchy smile with the exacerbated dimple leaves him suspicious that she’s behind the whole thing.  He isn’t inclined to go along with her crazy plans; they don’t tend to turn out well for him.  Or for her, really, but it’s not his place to judge.





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mohini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mohini/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Seeing Ghosts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15380085) by [Mohini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mohini/pseuds/Mohini). 



> Find me on Tumblr @builder051

James isn’t sure when the cross-country road trip became a good idea, or who thought it up in the first place.  Tasha’s twitchy smile with the exacerbated dimple leaves him suspicious that she’s behind the whole thing.  He isn’t inclined to go along with her crazy plans; they don’t tend to turn out well for him.  Or for her, really, but it’s not his place to judge.

The trip becomes a good idea by default when Steve jumps on board, hitting up sales for new suitcases and washing and folding the jumble of gym socks and worn-once pajamas in the bottom drawer of the dresser.  

James stands silently in the doorway, watching a pile of plaid boxers disappear into nylon lining that still smells like a big box store, like new car and cheap baked goods and somebody’s spilled shampoo.

“We don’t have to go, you know,” Steve says, leaving the half-filled suitcase to lay his hand on James’s stump arm.  He finds the pressure point behind his shoulder and forces relaxation through the limb that isn’t there.  No arm doesn’t mean no tension.  

James almost scoffs at the thought.  “Yeah, we do,” he mutters.  “You’re packed.  We’re getting Tasha in the morning.”  He shrugs.  Getting her makes her sound like a coffee order.  Or the slips of paper the doctors at the VA hand out when they want him to go down to the basement for bloodwork.  Tasha isn’t food, and she certainly isn’t a medical procedure, though sometimes she’s as annoying and unavoidable as both.

“We can cancel,” Steve offers.  He squeezes gently down James’s stump, finding the still-red groove in his skin from the prosthetic he’s tired of wearing.  Steve looks back to the suitcase almost wistfully.  He doesn’t want to cancel, and James knows it.  For some unfathomable reason, Steve likes Tasha.  He likes to indulge her as much as James does, which shouldn’t make James jealous.  He should just be happy they get along, that Mr. do-the-right-thing is content to quietly love Miss always-in-trouble.

“No, we can’t.”  James is well aware he sounds like a child, defiant and attitudinal in a sleepy kind of way.  He is tired, hasn’t slept well lately.  “I told her yes.”  He leans forward to rest his chin on Steve’s shoulder.  “And you want to go.”

Steve goes still for a second, then breathes out in a long, slow movement that brings his chest flat against James’s.  “Yeah,” he finally whispers.  “I do.  So does Tasha.  And I think you do to.  In more than just a make-everybody-happy kind of way.”

“I just…” James murmurs.  “I don’t know.  You’re probably right.”  He smiles into Steve’s ear.

“You don’t always have to listen to me.”

“Hm.”  James shrugs.  “That’s what I want to do.”

“Fair enough.”  Steve presses his warm palm between James’s shoulder blades.  A moment of silence passes, then, “I still can’t believe you’ve never been to San Francisco.”

“Well…”  James doesn’t have answer.  But then again, he doesn’t need one.


	2. Part II

When Tasha settles in the back seat behind James, she has the twitchy look of someone who’s had a little too much caffeine, or some other white powdery substance.  She’s been a coffee drinker longer than James, pouring herself a steaming mug the size of her head before the rest of the household graduated from hot cocoa.  By the time she was a senior, she was taking her morning stimulant in the form of a pill.  It was usually one of a handful of little capsules, but caffeine was the only bottle James ever saw.

This morning, James suspects she’s taken more than just substitute coffee.  “Really?” he asks, raising his brows at her in the rearview mirror.  He wants to be kind and concerned, he truly does.  His head is killing him, though, and he’s still not sure he wants to go on the road trip at all.

“Hmph.”  Tasha shrugs and takes her phone from her pocket.  

James’s eyes linger on the tremor bouncing her thumb against the device’s screen.  He catches Steve looking, too, and quickly shakes his head.   _It’s worse than you think,_  he mentally sighs, hoping Steve gets his drift.

He doesn’t.  He pulls into the nearest Starbucks, asking if anyone’s hungry and proclaiming his need for a cake pop and a bathroom break.

“Geez, you’re gross,” Tasha mutters, though she gets out of the car all the same.  She walks directly to the counter and orders herself a triple Americano before James has the chance to blink up at the menu.

“You sure that’s a good idea?” he asks quietly, nudging her shoulder with his.  Her very core is shaking, passing the vibrations off to James in the brief moment of contact.

“Yeah?”  There’s a hint of  _no duh_  in Tasha’s voice, and she passes over her credit card before the barista can ask if James wants anything.  “And the same for him.”

“Thanks,” James says dully.  He knows better than to push her when she’s already this far gone.

Steve gets something that smells of strawberry mixed with buttercream, and highway driving mixes badly with the aroma.  James is reminded of the time he drank his foster mother’s wine cooler by mistake, then passed out in front of a marathon of Cartoon Network.  His stomach feels bloated with sickly sweet that rapidly rises to his head.

“Can we, um…?”  James gulps and looks from Steve’s concerned side eye to Tasha’s bowed head.  The part of her hair shows up magnified in the rearview, auburn curtains folding to either side of her pale face.  

“You ok?” Steve checks in.

“Yeah,” James answers, swallowing hard again.  “Just, can we take a break soon?”

“Too much coffee?” Tasha guffaws.  “Told you we shouldn’t have made that last stop.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who wanted 24 ounces of sludge—“  His half-full cup vibrates in the console, seemingly sapping his energy and his confidence to keep his stomach where it belongs.  A feeling of heavy numbness spreads along James’s jaw as the taste of charred Arabica blooms up in his throat.

“Yeah, well, you were happy to drink it,” Tasha continues to poke.  “On my dollar, too.”

“Hey—“ Steve starts to intervene.

“Jesus, just shut up,” James sighs.

“You shut up.”  Tasha kicks the back of his seat.

Pressure builds in James’s chest.  “Can you pull over?” he chokes, feeling clammy sweat break out across his forehead.

“Um…”  Steve swivels his head, trying to change lanes in front of a parade of traffic.  “Hold on.”

“Can’t—“  James claps his hand over his mouth, breathing frantically through the cage of his fingers.

“Ok, here.”  Steve jerks the steering wheel and shoves his almost empty Starbucks cup into James’s stiff prosthetic grip, cracking off the lid and pushing the froth of pinkish ice cubes against James’s chest.  The whole thing releases another gust of overly-sweet perfume and a thin spray of bubbles onto James’s shirt.

“What do you–?”  James doesn’t know if he’s supposed to drink it or vomit into it.  “Fuck.”  He gags into his palm.  Tasha mutters obscenities from the back seat, and Steve finally manages to bring the tires to a halt on the gravely shoulder.  James bites his lip and lets go long enough to fiddle with the door handle, then he jerks forward against his seatbelt to throw up all over his knees.

“Aw, fantastic,” Tasha spits, opening her door as well.

James has a feeling they’re in for a long trip.

 

 


	3. Part III

They don’t make it half as far as they intend to on the first day of driving. With James sick and Tasha surly, there’s reason enough to stop for a while. Steve presses on, though, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in the same tempo as the rain spattering on the windshield. The atmosphere is awful, both inside the car and out.

“Wow,” Steve finally says after an hour of all-around misery.

James braces for a question about how he’s feeling, and he shifts preemptively in his seat, removing his cold prosthesis from its protective position around his stomach.

“I can’t really see in this.” Steve gestures at the fog rolling past the windows. “I mean…”. He turns the windshield wipers up to a frenetic pace as a semi passes them on the left and sends a spray of dirty water over the hood of the car.

“Huh.” James hasn’t noticed the weather much, except that it’s bad. He gulps, unsure if he’s glad for the nausea’s distraction or disconcerted by it.

“No duh,” Tasha mutters from the backseat. She’s obviously noticed, but doesn’t seem any happier than James.

“I need to pull off. What do you think?” Steve poses. “Food? Rest stop?”

Tasha scoffs at both. James decides to keep his mouth shut.

“Or we could just stop for the night. I’ll change the hotel reservation.” Steve says it in a way that isn’t a suggestion.

James dials the phone for him, but hands it off before the multitasking makes him dizzy. He knows better than to ask Tasha to be civil to the poor soul on the other end of the line, so Steve takes over as promised. He has the superhuman ability to sweet talk and swerve between invisible lane markers at the same time. James tries not to think about either too hard.

“Ok,” Steve reports, dropping the phone into the cup holder. “Ten miles to the next major city. Then 100 yards off the highway to the new hotel. Never thought I’d say it, but god bless Expedia.”

James catches Tasha’s eye in the rear view mirror. The obligatory laugh of acknowledgement seems written on her lips, but she doesn’t release it. James can’t blame her because he doesn’t either.

The hotel is dingy, but clean, and conveniently located to the interstate. James wants to sleep, though it’s only four in the afternoon. The cloud cover makes it dark as dusk outside the curtained windows. He sits on the end of one of the beds and tries not to look pitiful as he digs the heel of his hand into his eye socket. He should only need a few minutes of quiet and stillness to pull himself together, but without the barriers of the seats and consoles in the car, he feels exposed in addition to ill.

“Hey.” Steve sets down an armful of bags and umbrellas and crosses the room to put a hand on James’s shoulder. “Still feeling rough?”

“Hm,” James grunts. “I’m fine.”

“Right.” Steve squats and unties James’s shoes for him, then peels the quilt back from the headboard. “You can take a nap. You don’t have to be all stoic. There’s nothing to prove.”

“Yeah, there is.” James maneuvers under the covers with a quiet sigh. If it was Tasha that needed the comforting, he’d have said the same thing. And meant it, too. But it’s him, the strong one, the big brother who’s still swallowing the urge to gag while Tasha turns around to dig in the pocket of her backpack. James doesn’t know what’s in there, but he doesn’t imagine it’s anything good.

“What’cha doing, Tash?” James can’t help himself.

“Nothing.” She spins too quickly, hair fanning out in an auburn blur. Watching it fall around her shoulders makes James’s stomach turn all over again. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Yeah. Don’t worry about it.” Steve turns off the bedside lamp and adjusts the covers, pulling them up to James’s chin.

“No…”. James wants to disagree more heartily, but the fallout won’t be worth it. Not with how today has been going so far. He settles for a meaningful look, to which Steve calmly raises his eyebrows. I got it, I got it.

The heavy door to the hotel room opens, and Steve looks around in time to give James a view of Tasha on her way out. “Where you going?”

“Ice,” she says simply, holding up a cup wrapped in plastic.

“Right.” Steve nods, but James sees more. He sees Tasha’s hand, holding the door open with her fist instead of her fingertips, and the shine of a miniature bottle cap peeking out from the top. He decides against saying anything, wondering if it’s residual sickness or if he’s going permanently mute.

It must be the former, because once Tasha closes the door, James manages to croak, “Don’t let her have more than two.”

“You saw that, too, then?” Steve sits on the edge of the bed.

“Oh, yeah. Classic Tasha.” James shuts his eyes instead of rolling them. “Used to be whipped cream flavored when we were younger, but she’s graduated to straight up vodka now.”

“That’s a hell of a change.”

“Yeah,” James muses. He shouldn’t be surprised, not at either of them. Steve’s not stupid, nor is Tasha, and both of them are just being their perfectly natural selves. “Like I said, don’t let her have more than two. Or you’ll have two sick kids on your hands. And none of us need another negative on today’s pile of shit…”

“Point taken,” Steve says.

“She doesn’t like being told what to do, I gotta warn you—“

“Really? Never would’ve guessed.” Steve grins.

“Shut up, punk.” James pulls the pillow halfway over his head.

“Will do. Now get some sleep.”


End file.
